Phantom of Notre Dame
by xmfan
Summary: AU. A mysterious figure dwells in the bell tower of Notre Dame. Who is this person? Where did they come from? A twisted parody of Disney's the Hunchback of Notre Dame. SH22xPoto crossover with a few OCs and an outofplace gentlenman thief.
1. Prologue

Yes, it's another story. Why? I actually have been keeping this one on file for some time and did not wish to post it until I had made some progress on my other stories. However, I fear I do not see any sign of that happening in the near future, so I say "what the heck".

I cannot guarantee I will be able to update frequently (isn't that the story of my life?), so I'm just putting up the prologue and the first chapter to see what people's reactions will be. If I decide to follow through with this story, it will be the _only_ story I will focus on. I'm kind of stressed with college applications and stuff, so please go easy on me about the updating. I'll do what I can.

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century, or Arsene Lupin. I do, however, own all OC's and would like them not to be stolen. Thank you. I also do not own the plot line of Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Yes, I _am_ basing it off that version because it fits with my idea. And I (ahem) didn't finish the book. The finessing of the plot to make it seemingly more original is my doing, however. If anyone tries to sue me, I will ask them to get a life. I already have my sister trying to get money from me. ;)

Now . . . the fic!

Prologue

The streets of Paris sizzled in the warmth of midday, both in the heat of the sun and the activity that took place on and above them. Petty venders, both human and robotic, rolled their wares down the sidewalks in the hopes of catching the eyes of potential customers. Shopkeepers propped their doors open for unsuppressed waves of business flooding the mighty city. It was a scene, though common in that district, very rarely beheld in any other place in the world. There was a perfect melding of new and old, the modern and the archaic. While hovercrafts glided over the tallest of historic and nearly ancient edifices, children played virtual stick ball over the worn cobblestone alleys.

Many cities around the world had their oldest streets refinished with asphalt (as it was difficult for hover cars to land on cobbled streets without causing damage to the sensitive underbellies of the machines). In this district, however, the landing of hover cars was completely forbidden. The area was labeled as a site of historical value and was not to be manipulated to the advances of modern technology. Only robots and other technological creations that had no affect on the city's architectural infrastructure were permitted within that part of Paris. The main reason, complemented by other, smaller ones, was the presence of one of the most revered and memorable architectural achievements – not only of Paris – but of the world:

Notre-Dame de Paris.

It was appropriate that this building should exist at the very center of the city, for all else seemed to revolve around it, none surpassing it in age or awe. Even the most ignorant of passer-byers could not help but take a moment to gaze up at the face of the magnificent "sphinx", wondering at its uncanny and overpowering presence.

And if that passer-byer is truly astounded by its physical appearance, then he or she must wait a moment to witness a unique characteristic that will knock them off their feet: the cathedral's celestial bells.

From the thunderous to the soft and sweet, the bells were capable of every range and every mood and tone. No other cathedral, no matter how technologically equipped, could match it. It is no surprise, then, that this monument which had survived for so many years should produce such a profound effect upon any who should pass beneath its shadow.

Deidre, a young teen with muddy brown hair and large auburn eyes ran to the steps of the mighty cathedral. "Hey, you guys!" she called to her friends from behind her. "Listen!"

A young African-American named Wiggins and an electronically-aided lad named Tennyson joined their exuberant companion. All three youths froze at the stairs, unwilling to disturb the moment to which they had been looking forward.

The bells of Notre Dame had begun to ring. The largest roared like the gongs of gods, making the very ground on which the children stood tremble and shake. The smaller bells greeted the listeners with their own melodious song, creating in whole a symphony that none of the young ones had ever heard. Many times they were told of the majesty of the music that would sound from the towers, but any thought or idea they might have anticipated was only a fraction of the reality they now beheld.

Even after the bells had stopped, their voices still echoed in the streets of the city and in the minds of all who had listened, including the company of friends that stood the closest of all.

"Blimey!" breathed Deidre after several moments. "I've never heard anything like it! Wasn't that amazing, guys?"

"Sure was!" concurred Wiggins, who fully admitted on more than one occasion to possessing neither any devotion, taste, nor interest in music or churches.

Tennyson beeped and whirred out a comment that to some extent referred to this fact. Deidre laughed heartily at it. "You're right, bucko. It's a good thing we did manage to drag him all the way here to hear them. Aren't you now glad that you came?"

Wiggins couldn't help but shove his hands in his pockets and shuffle his shoes against the ground a bit. "Okay, I guess. You won't be telling all of your friends about this, though, right?"

"Hmmm . . . _possibly_." The girl smiled mischievously, giving no inkling in either direction of choice. This left the poor former boxer to sigh away his worry and look up at the cathedral.

"They certainly are something, those bells."

"_They certainly are_."

The threesome spun around at the sound of the new voice, and found themselves face to face with a dashing dandy, about his early thirties, dressed in 19th century wealthy gentleman's clothes. The more ironic fact about the situation was that he was leaning

against what seemed to be an old vender's stand decorated with nothing but a worn-out curtain across the face of the opening and a simple frieze engraved along the top. How could a man who seemed to run such a poor business afford the expensive attire on his person?

"Who are you?" Wiggins asked warily.

The gentleman touched the brim of his black top hat. "M. Arsène Lupin at your service. Yes, they are quite something, aren't they? I come here almost every day just to listen to them."

"I don't blame you," replied Deidre in her usual friendly manner. "It must take quite a genius to wire up all those bells and make them sound so beautiful."

A coy smiled spread across the gentleman's lips. "It is usually against my principles to contradict a lady; however, the bells are quite capable of producing their own beautiful sound without the aid of modern technology. Besides . . ." He was certain to pause at this moment to capture the group's attention. ". . . whoever said they ring by themselves?"

"Well, they cannot really ring by themselves," Wiggins pointed out, "There must be some sort of network constructed to make the bells ring without the hand of a human being."

"I understand that, my good man," said M. Lupin in all affability, "But I will tell you without a doubt in my mind that the bells – while they might be assisted with some electric power – are not without any _human_ help."

The children stared at him in astonishment. "Y-you," stammered Deidre, "mean to say that . . . there is _actually_ someone up there _ringing_ the bells?!"

"Of course there is! Have you never heard of our bell ringer?"

Tennyson spoke up, his statements directed at Wiggins. Wiggins, in turn, spoke to Lupin. "Tennyson says that he read a book, _Notre-Dame de Paris_, and in that book there was a bellringer called Quasimodo, a hunchback. Is that who you mean?"

"There was indeed such a being," answered Lupin, "but he has long since passed from this world. In fact, his death was viewed by some to be the death of Notre Dame. He was, in many ways, the edifice's very soul."

Lupin took another pause to allow this information to sink into the children's minds. After all, such facts are very important to know when one is speaking of Notre Dame.

"But it is not so now," he continued. "And our current bell ringer is by no means a hunchback. She is called by a different name."

Wiggins furrowed his brow. "_She?_"

"Oh, yes, _she_. And _she_ has a proper name; but most of us around here call her the _Phantom_."

The friends exchanged looks of confusion and puzzlement, not knowing what to make of these almost absurd and unbelievable remarks. Lupin could see, however, that even in their doubt, they were anxious to know more about this mysterious figure of whom they had never seen or heard.

"Perhaps I shall start from the beginning."

In a flash, the strange gentleman disappeared into his vender's cart, only to part the curtain and reveal the true beauty that lay inside his vehicle. It was a puppet theater. The children quickly gathered to him, eager and ready for his story.

"Now, Lupin shall begin the tale," said the puppeteer in a mysterious tone. "So listen well, and you just may listen to the bells in a way you never have before. This is a tale whose words ring as true as they. It is a tale about loneliness, friendship, passion, romance, adventure, cruelty, and revenge.

"But, most of all, as most of the greatest stories are . . . it is the tale of a beautiful woman . . . _and a monster_ . . ."

Woo-hoo. Okay. Prologue done. Now the first chapter. Hope you like! Please tell me what you think. And don't make me beg. You don't want to see me when I start to beg. It gets _ugly_.


	2. Chapter 1

Here's the next. I am NOT saying the disclaimer again. Oh, by the way, does anyone think I should put songs in this? Or would that be dumbing it down?

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Chapter 1

It sometimes happens at certain points in history that a society will retreat to more arcane views and rules of conduct. It is not purposefully done, but such changes are often led by those whose families have held strong to those ancient beliefs for longer than most care to think. Such was the case in France shortly after its entrance into the 22nd century.

It was a dark time for the artists of France. This dismal era was mostly due to the reappearance of the country's aristocracy, which for many centuries had lay dormant in society's struggle for equality for all. Aristocrats were looked down upon as selfish villains who cared for none but themselves, and did not deserve the title of "lord" or "count" anymore than anyone else. Bloodlines were considered invalid and void of any special treatment. One's way in the world must be self-made; that was the order of society. The majority was satisfied with this doctrine, and few argued with it.

Then there came disaster. In the late 21st century, bankruptcy and depression spread across Europe like wildfire; millions of people who had made their way in the world lost practically everything. Governments that were unable to bring security and stability back into their towns and cities were soon dissolved. The abandonment of local governments led to the inevitable threat of national government. Socialist groups began to form; talk of rebellion and anarchy started to grow. Some countries, such as Spain and the nations of the British Isles, were able to bring the fearful chaos under control. In France, however, things spiraled very quickly. Social order was nearly gone. Government officials had lost almost all power over the public. What could be done to stop the imminent storm?

That was when they stepped forward: the aristocrats. Though they had been working for a living as every other citizen, they had maintained their family devotion and pride, and were willing to bring the nation under control for the government if the government, in turn, was willing to reestablish the gentry of France to its full potential, granting them their long overdue purses.

After much debating, the remaining fragments of the government agreed to give in to the aristocrats' requests. The wave of anarchy and rebellion ended, and social order was regained. However, it came at a heavy price.

The aristocrats had banned together in order to persuade the government to agree to their bargain. Therefore, the newly reinstated gentry believed it was up to them to keep things under their control; in other words, it meant the return of firmly stated, inflexible social classes.

While the people were thoroughly outraged by this new social setup, there was little that could be done to change it. The poor suffered the most, as always in such instances, and were granted no special benefits except the usual donations from charity.

Interestingly, this new order of classes and the ill-treatment of the poor led to the establishment of a new class of people: the artists. According to the aristocrats, artists were always considered the lowest of the low, even compared to beggars and homeless people. Unlike the vocations of the lower and middle classes (which were usually labeled as "manual labor") or the upper class (which was a gentleman's income), artists made their living through entertainment, without having to performing heavy-duty labor. This form of livelihood often entailed unconventional opinions and behavior, which were distasteful in the eyes of the gentry. It soon became a resolution among them to dissolve this misfit class.

A law was soon passed by the government that all people who claimed to be "artists" for a living would be excluded from the social order, and therefore could be arrested and tried with anarchy. Despite the legal threat, many people continued to live this lifestyle, as it was their only choice for living, both in blood terms and monetary terms.

Thus a war was waged between the two classes. As a form of degradation toward the artists that rebelled against the authority of the gentry, the aristocrats labeled all artists under one collective name: _Bohemians_.

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The air chilled the bones of the passengers on the small river boat that traveled silently through the night. There were no stars above to serve as guides; the sky was filled to the brim with storm clouds that promised a terrible blizzard.

_At least there will be no moon to give us away_, thought one passenger in particular.

The passenger in question was sitting beside his wife: a thin, pale girl with the sun in her hair and the sea in her eyes. Although she was bundled quite warmly, she still shivered violently. Her beloved was certain that the cause was not just the cold. Gingerly, he shifted himself so as to free his large, black cape from under his seat and wrapped around the young woman for an extra dose of comfort. He made sure that the bundle she held in her arms was also kept safe and warm.

"How much longer till we reach our destination?" whispered the man in as low a tone as possible.

The older man in the seat in front of him turned slightly toward him. "Not sure. I think Garnier said that once we reach le Pont de Notre-Dame, we have only to land on the eastern bank and make our way to the cathedral without anyone spotting us." The old gentleman paused for a minute. "It will be enough to even come in sight of the cathedral, God willing."

"Do not worry, Degas," reassured his companion, "we will get their all right."

"I hope you're right, _mon ami_."

The man hoped he was right, too. He looked to his wife again. "How are you doing, dear?"

She looked at him, trying her best to appear hopeful. "I will be fine, Erik. I will certainly feel much better once we reach the bridge."

"As will I."

"All right, now," warned the boatman at the front, "we mustn't make a noise. Everyone keep quiet."

Erik clutched his love around the waist with one arm while gripping the part of cloth mask covering his neck. He had developing this strange fear of losing his one source of protection against the world's prying eyes even when he was certain he had fastened it securely.

Several moments of tension passed at the vessel glided over the river. Every slight splash or break against it set the group on edge. It was always a treacherous journey for one artist, let alone four, to make. A secret message had gone out that a new haven was being constructed for artists from every edge of the city to congregate and hopefully live in safety.

Erik could remember Christine's expression when he told her about it. She looked down at their two-month-old daughter, then back up at her husband. "I want what is best for our little girl."

Notre Dame was supposed to be the safest point to go from to find the hideout. It was the only place in which the Aristocrats could not apprehend them. If the group could just make it to the cathedral, they would have survived the most dangerous part of the journey.

Many minutes of fear and anxiety passed until, at last, the twin heads of the designated building came into sight. A general breath of relief was released among the travelers. They were not, however, out of the woods yet.

The boatman who sat on the bow, young Charles Garnier, steered the boat towards the right-hand shore as steadily as he could. Even then, though, with every ounce of mettle mustered to maximum capability, the architect could still feel his hands shiver and shake as he gripped the icy punt. He prayed that this terrible moment would soon be over, and they would soon find themselves in the balm of safety, away from the cold and the prying eyes that could be felt – but not seen – in the night.

The boat touched the shore ever so gingerly. Then, one by one, the passengers unloaded onto the snowy bank, with le Pont de Notre Dame overshadowing them. Erik could still see keenly in the darkness; ergo it was up to him to ensure the safe debarking of the other passengers. His lovely Christine was the last to step out, whereupon she retreated into her husband's arms.

"We made it!" she whispered in disbelief. "We actually made it!"

"Come," ordered Garnier quietly, "this is the way we must go."

Edgar Degas, the elderly painter, allowed Christine and Erik to pass in front of him so that he could watch for them from the rear. All three cautiously followed Garnier underneath the bridge and along the opposite side. One stone wall seemed to be the only separation between them and sanctuary.

"Now, stay close—"

Garnier's statement was cut short when a sudden blast hit the wide side of the bridge, missing him by only an inch. The young man nearly stumbled back into the rest of the group.

"Everyone fall back! Run back to the boat!"

Painter, violinist, and singer all whipped around to retreat to where they came, only to be greeted by more blasts; one managed to hit Degas in the shoulder and bring him to the ground.

The shots came from ionizers in the hands of the Paris police. The policemen quickly surrounded the fugitives, preparing to fire at the slightest false move.

_No! _cried Erik in his thoughts. _How could this be? Could they have been tracking us the entire time? _

He could only clench his teeth in frustration and anger, instinctively holding his Christine more closely than ever.

"Bring them to shore," barked a voice out of the view of the captives. It was not necessary for Erik or Christine to see him to recognize who he was. Both of their hearts dropped into their feet with despair. The lawmen formed an armed wall around their quarry and led them to that voice of authority, and the couple came face to face with a figure that struck them with the surest sense of doom: Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny.

He sat high on his horse, glaring at them mercilessly. Despite the fact that they had always been rivals, Erik could not help but feel that the young man had developed a malicious presence after all of these years. Christine certainly was not happy to see him, and she had actually loved him at one time.

"Take the other two," the viscount ordered to the sergeant next to him, also on horseback. "Leave the woman and the man in the mask with me. I would like to address them myself."

The sergeant obediently conceded to this order and took two-thirds of his men with him. The other third was to remain on guard and to prevent the pair from making any escape attempts. Raoul de Chagny still maintained an authoritative air, yet as he spoke to them, he betrayed his more deeply seated pride and hunger for revenge against those who had wronged him. His resentful glare remained fixed on them.

"I see that even time is not enough to keep old foes apart, Erik. To the eyes of the world, you are the common criminal, although perhaps not so common in appearance. But in my hands, monsieur, a punishment and torture more suited for you than any sentence the law could contrive awaits you. And you, dear Christine . . ." a touch of poignancy momentarily entered his voice, ". . . my poor, misguided Christine. How hard I had tried to save you from this result, this consequence of the life you were determined to lead. Perhaps I would have rescued you were it not for . . ."

A heavy pause halted his remark, but it did not prevent his meaning from being understood by the prisoners. Even Erik could not believe how long this man had held onto his hate. Was it only to wield it at such an opportunity as this? How could he have kept it alive for so long without driving himself completely mad? (Oh, it can not be denied that a man who clings to heartbreak for so many years is not or does not become somewhat mad).

Suddenly Erik's eye caught another figure who sat on another horse, a mighty white stallion, standing several feet behind Raoul. It was only when he noted a similarity in this person's face and stature to that of the viscount did he realize exactly how much time had passed.

"Ah," said Raoul, noting Erik's look and altering to a lighter yet bitterly condescending tone, "how inconsiderate of me! I did not even take the trouble of introducing you to my lovely daughter. Come forward, Lotte."

The child obeyed, and as she approached them, Erik and Christine could see that she was, in fact, quite beautiful, with her bright sapphire eyes, fair complexion, and red curly hair that spilled over her shoulders; her blue cowl and regal stallion promoted the appearance of royalty, a sight that almost any parent would be proud of if it were their daughter in her place.

"This is Lotte," stated Raoul, "the future Comtesse de Chagny."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said the young girl in a manner that immediately exclaimed cold condescension and snobbery she had learned from her father. Her ruthlessness almost surpassed that of her progenitor at only seventeen years of age. The pride of that family seemed to be magnified ten-fold in this generation. It could certainly not be explained by her mother, who, although a member of a proud aristocratic line, was weak in mind and constitution; she had married Raoul on the order of her family and had died in childbirth, leaving the viscount as the only source of parental guidance for the girl that was born to them. It was clear that Raoul did not love his wife, nor had her influence cooled his ever consuming wrath against Christine. _She _had been the one whom he truly loved, and she had been taken from him by the one he simply called "the creature" or "the monster". His determined resentment even took as far as naming his only child not after his wife, nor anyone in her family or his family, but after Christine's childhood nickname: Little Lotte.

"Now, I am afraid it is time to go," said Raoul. "Officers (to the policemen), I think it would be more beneficial if we escorted Mlle. Daae" (he would not call her by her married name) "to the Palace of Justice ahead of our masked friend here. And be sure that their cells are nowhere near each other. You may take her now."

A few of the policemen grabbed Christine not too kindly and began to lead her away; those who remained were assigned to the task of restraining Erik as he tried to go after her. The policemen with Christine we attempting to handcuff her as well, but she made it very difficult as she held firmly to the bundle in her arms. Noticing what she carried for the first time but not realizing what it was, Raoul ordered, "Take that thing from her."

Poor Christine thought that Raoul knew what she was carrying, which made her become more panicked and fearful as she thrashed about wildly. "No! Get away! Please, leave me alone!"

Erik finally drew close enough to one of the policemen to wrestle for his ionizer. The viscount tried to interfere and subdue the confrontation, but everything happened too quickly.

Christine raised the bundle over her head as a way to bring the bundle out of direct reach while Erik and the officer fought over the ionizer. The officer extricated his weapon and jerked his elbow into Erik's chest to push him out of the way. The force of the blow, however, caused the lawman to accidentally pull on the trigger. The blast from the ionizer hit Christine directly in the chest. The distance between the two bodies was so close and the force of the blast so powerful, that it went directly through her heart; she collapsed into the snow and was dead in an instant.

Both the fugitive and the viscount, the husband and the admirer, stood in shock at what had happened.

"You idiot!" screamed Raoul, not quite certain if he was yelling at Erik or at the officer. "Look at what you've done!"

Unimaginable rage began to swell up within Erik's wounded breast, and he was nearly prepared to kill anyone who came within reach of his hand. His anger, however, was soon replaced by anxiety when he saw the bundle lying on the ground, just a few inches from Christine's hands.

No one had time to react. The masked musician knocked several of the policemen down as he rushed over and dove for the precious specimen. "Stop him!" yelled Raoul when he regained his senses. "Don't let him get away!"

It was no use. Erik was off like a shot and none of the policemen could get to their feet quick enough nor match his long legs in speed. Without another thought, Raoul pursued his enemy himself on horseback, following him down the bank and beyond the wall that led into the city.

The streets were dark and icy. Erik felt his lungs burning as he tried to find his way to the cathedral with the viscount directly at his heels. The horse's hot breath brushed against the violinist's neck, and the labored breathing of the nobleman was uncomfortably distinct and close. Erik managed to lose Raoul in a narrow alley on a sharp turn that caused the horse to slip and slide. He gained only a few extra seconds, giving him just enough time to run through the side street, into the square, and up the stairs of the mighty edifice. He held his daughter firmly in one arm while he pounded his fist against the large, wooden door, crying, "Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!"

When he turned around, the viscount and his horse were practically on top of him. Raoul reached and grabbed a part of the cloth covering the bundle. He viciously tried to confiscate the mysterious item, which he now had an idea of as to its identity. Erik held on with both hands as he tugged back. Both foes were equally matched, mostly due to Raoul's advantage of plane. In a final, desperate act, Erik kicked the horse's side so as to knock both horse and rider back and force Raoul to release the cargo. Instead, the horse reared up in pain and fright, causing Raoul to be thrown off and both men to tumble onto the stone steps. In the last instant, as he fell backward, Erik successfully held the child to his chest, assuring her that she was safe at last.

Lotte had become accustomed to this sort of thing. Her father was one of many aristocrats who served as heads of law enforcement in the pursuit of that class of vagabonds, the Bohemians. From her earliest days of adolescence, she had asked her father all about the activities of his vocation and those whom he handed over to justice. He instructed her in his understanding of the structure of society, the duties that it entitled, and the wretchedness of those who placed themselves outside this venerable structure for their own pursuits and passions. She grew to hate them as he did; her nature, however, was strangely a great deal more passionate than her father's, and therefore everything he taught her she took to a magnified degree in her own mind. Raoul admired her vim, and he wished to help her harness it and use it to turn her into his ultimate dream: a strong figure that would rid the world of its blemishes in the form of criminals and rebellion-oriented radicals. So, when she turned fifteen, he began to bring her on some of his excursions so that she would be a witness to the execution of justice against the scum of the earth. She was a quick and avid student, which created an uncommonly strong bond between them – they who had no creature on earth to serve as a source of companionship except each other.

Raoul had been a bit reluctant to bring Lotte on this particular trip. While he would be reveling in his greatest triumph, deep down he did not wish to expose her to that part of his past, for it would be a victory she would not be able to understand or appreciate (at least until she had undergone a similar experience). Her devotion to him, however, was unbreakable to the last, and he finally conceded in having her accompany him with the police force. He forewarned her that the confrontation could get exceptionally ugly that night; she claimed she was prepared for anything.

Lotte had not seen any more or any less of what she expected. While she was very astute in her strict studies (her father preferred to hire tutors over sending her to boarding school), she also allowed herself to be educated in the larger functions of the world, and the drama that often creeps in on the general and personal levels. She was aware of fantastic stories of shameful pasts, treacherous love affairs, and the deleterious results that can occur from them. While she could never bring herself to think anything ill of her father and his history, she could not deny that events may have occurred in his past that would cause trouble for him were he to face its return. She had very nearly guessed as to the nature between the viscount and the couple he was hunting that night, and could only conclude that whatever the circumstances, her father must have been the victim. This conclusion made itself clear in her mind when she observed the meeting between the two parties (although her father had done most of the talking).

Now she waited for him on the bank of the Seine. Her instinct began to pry at her heart, saying that her father needed her. Then, as time continued to pass and he still had not returned (with or without the fugitive), the message changed to "Something has happened. You must go after him." She suppressed the urge for as long as she could, knowing her father would not want her getting herself into any danger. At last, Lotte could no longer take it. She nudged her horse's thighs and took off down the bank. As her fears became stronger, she ordered the horse into a gallop. Her insides began to tear apart as she rode deeper into the city. She search diligently among the streets and alleyways, until finally, by some unknown force, she was led to the façade of Notre Dame. And there stood a devastating sight.

Two bodies lay limp on the stone steps, each with his head smashed open and blood dripping down from the wounds onto the frosted granite. One body seemed to have been flipped over on his head and then slid down a few steps; the other appeared to be upside down, his head pointing to the bottom step. The viscount's horse was gone, and the square was completely empty.

Lotte frantically dismounted and ran over to the body that slid down the steps, recognizing her father's dirtied clothes. The bottle that contained her emotions was shattered at the moment she touched his skin (which was stone cold) and looked into his unblinking eyes. She tried to shake him, to call his name and beg him to wake up, even when she knew there was no hope. Perhaps if this young countess had not had the seed of hate planted into her soul, she would have walked away that night and never set foot out of the doors of her home again. The poison had already been drunk, however, and it brought about a great weight in her heart that, from that night on, would remain there for the rest of her days.

She looked at the other body further up the stairs. It was the man in the mask who had escaped and her father had been trying to catch. Loathing rushed into every pore, and it prompted her to run up the steps and make sure that he was dead, too. She wanted to look into his eyes and know that he had been conquered by the same fate. When she tried to look at the eyes, the mask obscured them. She angrily got down and pried the mask off. A sickening sensation twisted her insides as she looked at what lay underneath. She saw the face of a man who looked as if he had been dead long before he fell upon those steps. His eyes, once possessing a yellow glow, had faded to bottomless black. The thin, cracked lips were slightly parted, and the skin was so disgustingly yellowish white that she feared he carried some sort of plague and retreated back a foot. In his arms, he still held that bundle, that hateful bundle that had caused this whole mess. In a fit of inconsolable wrath, she kicked the deformed body of the musician several times, cursing him for having ever been born and having caused the death of her one companion and kin. Then she turned away in distress and began to walk back to her horse.

Then she heard a sound that she never expected to hear. It started out as a whine, distinct but still unsure. After a second's hesitation, it grew into a full-fledged infantile cry.

"A _baby_?" she said with disbelief. It was a _baby_ that had caused all of this?

Cautiously, Lotte returned to the musician's corpse. Sure enough, the bundle in his arms had begun to wriggle and squirm, its cries growing louder and louder. She carefully extricated the baby from the masked man's stiff arms, then brought it up to her face and inspected it. Most of the baby's face was concealed by part of its blanket. So, without another thought, Lotte removed the blanket and gasped in horror.

"No!" she cried. "It's another monster!"

Although the infant's disfigurement was not nearly as bad as that of its father, it was certainly hideous enough to make grown men deflect their gaze. Half of the face was mangled and twisted, swollen around the right side of the upper lip and in the area where an eyebrow was supposed to be. The eye itself was partially sunk into the tiny skull, and the cheekbone nearly broke through the skin. The most startling thing, however, was the fact that both eyes had the same yellow glow as that of the father.

Lotte could not stand holding the wretched being for another moment. After all, what could she do with it? As far as she knew, both of the child's parents were dead, and it probably had no other relation in the world. Even if it did, who would want to claim a bloodline to such a beast as this? No, it was better to extinguish this life before it started. The girl quickly looked around, and her eyes fell on a well. It was perfect.

She walked over to the mechanism, took one more look at the child, then held it out over the abyssal hole with one hand, preparing to drop it without a trace of regret.

"Stop!"

Lotte whirled her head around. A tall man in papal robes stood at the top of the steps leading to the cathedral, his right arm fully extended and ending with an open palm faced directly at the girl. It was, from what Lotte could deduce, the archdeacon.

"Attend to your own business, deacon," she said with a snarl. "I have my own duty to perform. This child is a wretched demon; I'm sending it back to Hell, where it belongs."

The old man lowered his arm, but his fierce gaze did not move from a fixed spot between her eyes as he descended the steps to the two lifeless corpses. Only when he knelt down and placed his hand upon the forehead of the disfigured fellow did he allowed his eyes to focus on a different subject. He examined the body for several moments, inspecting him from head to toe, and especially focusing on his unfortunate face. After this period of intense silence, the archdeacon asked in a hushed tone, "Is this the child's father?"

"I suppose so," replied Lotte, her own tone still harsh and unforgiving.

"And the other man?"

The girl clenched her teeth slightly, both out of anger and grief. She finally answered, "He is _my_ father."

"I see." There did seem to be an expression of compassion in the man's voice, but it offered Lotte very little comfort. She still had the monstrous child to dispose of. It remained precariously suspended above the well's gaping mouth.

The archdeacon's gaze returned to Lotte, this time not so completely riveted on her alone, but on the child who's life she was about to terminate.

"Do you really think that will solve anything? Do you think that will bring your father back?" His voice was still soft, yet there was a strange power behind it that Lotte could not ignore if she attempted to do so. It had the ring of a conscience.

"It is a monster, your honor," she said. "I would gladly show you its face so that you may see for yourself."

"I do not need to see its face to know that it is still a human being, as this man here was."

He was referring to the disfigured Bohemian. Lotte took the liberty of scoffing at the holy man's words. "I find it questionable. He killed my father."

"It seems just as much as your father killed _that child's _father."

The girl pursed her lips, trying to quell her boiling rage. "He pursued him. He pursued him because that . . . _thing_ chose to run from justice. My father was only doing his duty."

"Indeed," replied the archdeacon without a speck of confidence. "And do you think your killing of perhaps this man's only child is an action of justice as well?"

While Lotte did not mentally relent on her position, she physically retracted the child from the opening and held it to her chest. "This child has nothing. Its parents are dead. No one will want it. Is it not better to rid the world of one more blemish before it can know its full depraved potential?"

"How can you be the judge of such a question?" The man's tone began to change from quiet probing to resonant condemning. "Do you know the fate of all who walk this earth? Do you decide which lives must live and which must die in every year, every day, or every minute? No, _mademoiselle_. Such power belongs to only One. By challenging His power in taking that child's life, you are condemning yourself."

"Why should I have remorse for this one life that cannot possibly amount to any good?"

"Because it is your soul that is at stake."

_Her soul_. Lotte had never thought a great deal about her soul. While her father had raised her in the basic forms of worship under the sanctity of the Church, she had never taken such teachings and lectures fully to heart. This may have been partly caused by the fact that her father praised her daily and could not find a fault within her. Now, however, as Lotte's eyes began to look around and her ears to acknowledge that unbearable stillness, she felt as if her most hidden secrets, thoughts, and desires had been laid bare for all the world to see. Yet who could see her? There was only the aging vicar and two dead carcasses. Her eyes, however, soon caught sight of more figures. These figures were, in themselves, not alive: they were the statues of saints that lined the walls of Notre Dame. In some ways, they were worse than living people. Their eyes were cold, unblinking, and eternally fixed on the spot where she presently stood. She had heard some old stories of long-deceased saints who were able to speak through statues of themselves. Could they also see through those stone eyes? If so, the young woman could not deny the possibility that their supernatural nature would permit them to see beyond her physical features and observe her thoughts, her feelings, her memories of previous actions and words. This notion left her feeling naked, exposed, and completely terrified.

Still holding the baby close to her bosom, she looked back towards the archdeacon. "W-what must I do?"

The deacon, in the meantime, had pulled the bodies of both men up the steps and laid them carefully beside one another, arms folded across their chests.

"You said yourself the child has no one to take care of him. You must care for him yourself, and raise him as your own."

The reply momentarily left Lotte in a fit of shock. "What? Outrageous! I am the Countess de Chagny! Why should a countess be saddled with a horrid, misshapen . . ."

She looked down at the child again, its large eyes staring up at her. This child had no one to take care of it. It would be totally dependent on her.

Dependent . . . and _obedient_.

A thought clicked in the girl's mind. She could never presume to treat this child as if it was her own, but she could surely turn it into her loyal assistant and servant. Was the child a boy? If so, it certainly could help her in her cause against those wretches by whose hand her own father had fallen.

Lotte moved the blanket about and dug her hand in to see if she could extricate the child a bit more and determine its gender. In the process, something small but glittering caught her eye. It was some sort of golden locket on a chain, placed lovingly around the baby's wrinkled neck. Lotte took the heart-shaped piece between her fingers and read the engraved inscription:

_Angelique_.

Very well, let it be a girl. Perhaps it is for the better. She may not develop the brawns of a man, but she would probably be more controllable and easier to persuade. This would also allow the child to look upon the new Countess as her role model.

In a matter of seconds, the red-head had gone from sheer disgust and rebellion to one of calm compliance and coolness.

"Very well," she repeated, this time aloud to the deacon, "but I have one condition that must be agreed upon. The child must live in the church."

The archdeacon was astonished by this request. "Live _here_? Where?"

"Anywhere," she answered. "Someplace where no one else will look upon her . . ."

Lotte looked up once more, this time past the inanimate saints to the twin heads of the mighty cathedral."

"What about the bell tower? Yes, that should suit her just fine. Perhaps she can be your bell ringer?"

The deacon looked a bit concerned at the suggestion. "Well, we were planning to have a new electric system installed, but I suppose . . ."

"Perfect," said Lotte without hesitation. "She shall live there. She shall have her purpose. And who knows? Perhaps she will come to do even greater things. Does not your kind claim, _monseigneur_, that our Lord works in strange and mysterious ways?"

She looked once more at the infant who now began to fall asleep in her arms. _Yes, _she thought contently, _even this fowl creature may prove to be of use to me one day_.

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Although the Countess forbade the child from living with her, she made sure to visit her at least every other day and ensure that necessities were provided for. When Lotte outgrew her tutors, she permitted them to teach Angelique. They were, however, separated from the girl by a heavy curtain during sessions and were never allowed to see the child face to face. Lotte claimed it was due to a "most unfortunate disease."

Seeing as how the girl was rarely ever in the presence of others and would never be allowed to venture out into the world, the Countess was not too particular in regards of Angelique's dress. Of course, she had to be civilized to a point, not running around stark naked like some wild animal. But beyond that, Angelique did not worry Lotte too much. The child demonstrated from an early age an unusual sense of curiosity, never being fully satisfied with what was presented before her and insisting she experiment with the materials she was given. Lotte had accepted this quirk as a natural aspect of Angelique's freakish nature. Why should she try to alter that? It was partly the reason why she had not bothered to change Angelique's name: it was a quiet form of cruel irony in regards to the poor girl's fate. And she was becoming, in a sense, the angel of the cathedral, wandering through it endlessly, taking careful notice of every part of it, and coming to love it as her one and only home. Besides, when children passed by the cathedral and asked who ran the bells, Lotte could say without a feeling of falsehood, "Why, an angel, of course!"

Angelique began to ring the bells at the age of five. Though she was rather small in those early years, she quickly developed an uncanny strength that made Lotte reconsider the possibility of using Angelique someday as a source of brawns. This superhuman strength did not rule out strength of mind, however: Angelique displayed both. The girl learned how to read from a very early age and eagerly went through more books from age three to twenty than most people do in half a lifetime. Of course, the girl really had nothing else to do besides read and stare at the people passing beneath her.

There was just one trait of Angelique's that made Lotte both concerned about and slightly repulsed by her. Apparently, Angelique had inherited her parent's artistic streak and wasted no time in applying it to her environment. From the time she learned to read, she started to ask her "mistress" for paper, pencils, paints, and just about any drawing utensil the Countess could lay her hands on. She also began to ask for musical instruments that she would either hear people play in the street or see pictures of in the books she read. When she was older, she began to request certain fabrics that she could not name but eagerly described from the mental pictures she created. With the fabric, she decorated the bare space and turned it into her own unique domain of art. With the drawing paper and utensils, she created visual masterpieces that seemed to display the endless realm that existed in her imagination. Her greatest talent, however, came in the form of music.

Two instruments played the greatest part in the girl's life, and would continue to play an important role well into adulthood. Her favorite instrument, her "little friend" as she would call it, was the violin. She loved the warm, clear, timorous sound that would occur every time the bow touched the strings. There was a great deal of freedom in the use of the instrument, for she could tune the strings to different notes and play in different "positions" – her hand could go anywhere from the nut of the neck to the end of the black fingerboard. She also had her "big friend" – one that was not a close and personal as the violin, but could prove just as much, if not even more, useful in playing (and later composing) various types of music: the organ. Angelique recognized the organ's singularity in the way it was able to have many different voices, each of which could create a different tone and atmosphere. She was ecstatic over the possibilities it provided.

There was one set of instruments, however, that would eternally hold a special place in the solitary girl's heart: the bells, her "sisters of celestial song". She ran them at dawn, noon, and dusk, as well as special times on holy days. She eventually learned how in integrate her adoration of the bells and her fascination with the organ so that she could play both at once. It was she that was responsible for the electrical system that would be powered by the keys of a mighty church organ that was to be installed in the bell tower. She had designed the system, however, in such a way that if she felt a compulsion to ring the bells manually, it could be done so without the least inconvenience.

Lotte's source of concern lay in the fear that sooner or later, Angelique would be old enough to become aware of the politics of the outside world. What if she learned of the Bohemians, who shared passions similar to her own? Would she sympathize with them? Would she dare to join them, abandoning her guardian and proceeding to cause havoc around the country? Lotte, however, soon banished her fears when she settled upon a solution: to tell Angelique about the Bohemians herself. She would also have to simultaneously tell Angelique of her connection with them in the most degrading tone possible, even if she had to go to the length of saying that her father had abandoned her. It was the only way to guarantee her loyalty.

This conversation had a strange effect upon Angelique. The girl's habits and traits never really changed, only that they became stronger. The girl also made more certain to hide herself from the world, having also been informed that the world would treat her horribly if she ever set foot out of doors.

This was also about the time that Angelique began to wear her mask of her own free will. Lotte had given her several masks when she was only a toddler, but the girl had seen no reason for one and therefore did not wear any of them. After this conversation, however, the seven-year-old started to wear a plain white mask the covered the upper half of her face, right down to the rim of her upper lip. Some years later, she had created her own special kind of mask that only covered half of her face – the half that was deformed. She also began to ask for different kind of clothes. She no longer wanted bright frilly dresses that brushed against her legs as she walked. She wanted something dark, elegant, and easy to move around in - this entailed climbing over turrets and scaling down walls. Not knowing what else to do, Lotte bought her an old boy's suit that was trimmed to fit her properly. Lotte hoped that this was merely a phase that would soon be over and done with. But it wasn't. Angelique continued to prefer trousers and jackets over dresses, and she soon had all her feminine attire dispensed of. She later on added a black, light-weight cloak and a black fedora to complete her eccentric wardrobe.

Should the Countess have forced her out of this habit? Perhaps, but what difference would it have made? It was not as if Angelique's personality had become completely warped by this new taste in clothing. She was generally anti-social and preferred solitude anyway, but she was also kind, gentle, and possessed an interesting degree of wit and charm. Could she be sullen at times? Of course. Did she even demonstrate instances of rage and bitterness? Lotte was far from denying it. She was a creature unlike Lotte had ever known, and while she could never see or love this girl as her own, she had managed to develop a very mild appreciation for Angelique's peculiarities, especially when the entire world seemed a mess and almost overwhelming. Being in her presence was like an escape from reality: it made for a pleasant retreat, but no one could stay there forever.

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"Now, children," said Lupin as he removed the puppets and background to make way for a new scene, "I have a riddle for you that you must solve before the story reaches its end."

The observers had not moved from their spot, nor did they have any intention of doing so.

"To sing the bells of Notre Dame," he continued, his voice maintaining the mesmerizing suspense, "you must decide the roles in which these characters play; who is the Monster, and who is the Maiden?"

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Holy crap this is long. Sorry, I probably won't have any more long chapters like this. This was just the set up, so there's a lot to cover. Remember, voice your opinion. I hope no one feels a strong urge to flame, but if it is absolutely necessary . . . well, you'd probably do it anyway whether I say you can or not. See ya!


	3. Chapter 2

Well, it's past midnight over here, and I am dog-tired. But I finally managed to finish my next update. Was it worth it? You tell me. No, seriously, tell me, I want to know what y'all think. I can barely focus, but I DID proofread, so please don't burn me about that. Well, okay, you can a little, I probably didn't find every mistake. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy. And yes, I _did_ put singing in here. Let me know if it's good or if it's too awkward. I just like the songs because they express so much what is difficult to spill out just in prose. Of course, they're more enjoyable when you actually know how the song goes melody-wise. Okay, enough rambling. Just read and enjoy. And review!

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Morning light shed its gentle rays upon the ancient edifice as a small, young bird sat sleeping with its head tucked snugly under its wing and just beginning to sense the sun's reviving warmth.

"Good morning," said a soft, melodious voice.

The bird stirred, uncovering its head to face the voice's owner. It gave a small chirp of a "hello". Its friend, a young woman with a black hat on her head and a white half-mask on her face, leaned in a bit more.

"So, will today be the day? Are you ready to fly?"

The bird responded by tucking in its head slightly, a gesture that indicated the creature's uncertainty and wariness. After all, the day the little one learned to fly was the day it would have to live out on its own. How did it know that it was ready?

The girl could detect her little companion's anxiety. "Are you sure?" she asked in an encouraging tone. "It's certainly a good day to try. If _I_ had to pick a day to fly, this would definitely be it."

In one swift move, she scooped up the bird with both hands and let it take in the scene below; the townspeople were assembling, and all varieties of booths, tents, and platforms were being erected. Decorations were being hung around the square, and though the celebrations had not yet begun, the excitement that brewed in the hearts of the citizens who bustled about could not go unnoticed. "What a better day to fly," said the girl, "than on the Festival of Fools?"

While the view was meant to uplift the small bird's spirits, the tiny creature only gulped in his observation of its height from the ground. It gave another nervous chirp.

"It'll be fun!" exclaimed the young woman. "There'll be jugglers, music, dancing . . ." and as she spoke, she lifted her feathered friend higher into the air while it, bucking up its courage, began to beat its wings. Before long, the girl was able to remove her hands from under the bird, and the bird was able to stay up on its own. The bird, whose eyes had been closed, now opened them and chirped with glee. The girl laughed in delight, then extended her hands again so the bird could rest in them.

Just then, a flock of pigeons swooped by, seeming to pass in a crescent-shaped flight path past the cathedral. The flock now began to head toward the rising sun. The little bird grew excited at seeing its own kind. It turned around and faced the young woman who had rescued it and taken care of it all this time. It gave a few questioning chirps that basically translated: "Shall I go with them now?"

The girl had come accustomed to her little friend's manner of communication that she could easily understand what was passing through its mind. She smiled and gently petted its head with her long forefinger. "Go on," she said lovingly, "no one wants to be cooped up here forever."

And with that, she let one of her only companions in the world go on its way. It gave one last chirp of goodbye and took off to catch up with the other birds.

Although the girl had tried to maintain a happy disposition for her friend's new life, she immediately shifted into a sullenly mood once the bird was no more than a tiny speck in the sky. She folded her arms together and leaned on the railing of the balcony. She nearly mimicked the statue that stood beside her, only the statue was that of a man with long, seemingly greasy hair and a stubble of a beard. The man also had his open jaw resting in his hands while his elbows pressed against the railing. It was a bit of a grotesque expression; he appeared to be in mid yawn, making his mouth opened as wide as possible. It was in that mouth that the bird had built its nest. The girl did not bother cleaning out the mouth of the statue. It would be cleaned soon enough.

As the girl stared out into the blue, a violent spitting and sputtering noise occurred beside her. "Ach! Ick! Puh-tew! Good Lord, I thought he'd _never_ leave! I'll be spitting feathers for a week!"

It was the very statue that had been in a yawning pose a moment before. It now moved and spoke like a living human being.

"Well, that's what happens when you sleep with your mouth open like that, Buquet."

This was another statue that stood at the other end of the balcony. It, too, had been inanimate only a moment before, but now had come to life. Unlike the first statue, however, this one was dressed in Persian attire with an astrakhan hat on its head.

The first statue, Buquet, retorted with a sarcastic chuckle and the remark, "Go scare a nun." Then he proceeded to approach the masked woman. "So, Angel, what's going on down there? A fight? A flogging?"

The Persian statue came over as well on the other side of Angelique. "A festival!" he cried.

"_Mon dieu! _You mean the Feast of Fools?" inquired Buquet, brimming with eagerness.

"Yup," replied Angelique, still wallowing in a melancholy mood.

"Well, all right! Pour the wine and (now adding armpit sounds for emphasis) cut the cheese!"

The Persian statue (which from now on shall be referred to as Nadir) ignored Buquet's cruder comments and noted in a more sophisticated manner, "It is a treat to observe the colorful pageantry of the simple commoners."

Buquet, in his excitement, gave both Angelique and Nadir a rough yet friendly knock as he said, "And boy, nothing like balcony seats for watching the old FOF."

"Yeah," grumbled Angelique, growing tired of this ramble and turning away from the scene, "_watching_."

Buquet did not even notice this glumness of mood in the young woman. His focus was completely fixated on the progress below and any possibility for personal entertainment. One such opportunity came his way. "Oh, look," he stated. "A mime." He gathered a snort of mucus into the back of his throat and prepared to fire. But just as he was about to do so, Nadir slap his hand over the troublemaker's trap. Buquet was forced to swallow the loogie. Nadir's reason for this interference, however, was given when he jerked his head in Angelique's direction of retreat. Buquet quickly turned around and noticed what was really going on for the first time.

"Hey now," he called, "what gives?"

"Aren't you going to watch the festival with us?" asked Nadir with genuine concern.

Angelique didn't answer. She merely walked inside the building and made her way up one of the wooden staircases of the bell tower. Nadir and Buquet looked at each other in confusion.

"I don't get it," said Buquet, shaking his head.

"Perhaps she's sick," suggested Nadir.

"Impossible!" cried a third voice.

Another statue had come to life, this time in the form of an old woman wearing a full-length hobble and carrying a cane in her right hand. There were always a few pigeons, if not more, perching on her head and shoulders. She approached the other two with the air of a mother-superior coming to scold two foolish novices. "If listening to you two for twenty years has not made her sick by now, nothing will!"

"But what could be wrong with her then?" continued Nadir. "Watching the Festival of Fools has always been the highlight of the year for Angelique."

The woman statue had begun to follow after Angelique when she turned around slightly to face her two other stone companions. "What good is watching a party if you never to go – GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU BUNCH OF BUZZARDS!" This last part was directed toward the birds hanging around her. She waved her cane violently at them, then turned around to find and comfort Angelique. "She's not made of stone, for goodness sake," she finished.

Angelique had fled to her private domain – her quarters above the church and town and directly beneath the bells. The walls of her chambers were mostly constructed of wooden beams from the building's infrastructure and heavy red curtains. She pushed one of these curtains aside as she entered the main room. In the middle of the room sat a simple table where a miniature of the very square she had been observing a moment ago was set up. The model included a scaled-down version of the Notre Dame cathedral, the modern-aged abodes surrounding it, and the commoners who lived in said abodes. There was even a figurine of herself, which happened to be a bit cruder in design than the others since it was one of the first figurines she had ever made. With a quiet sigh, Angel sat herself down at the model and began brooding over the mini-townsfolk who could not see her any more than their originals. She even started moving one around with the same index finger she had used to pet the baby bird.

Her statue friends observed her from the shadows, beginning to gain an understanding of what was going through the poor girl's mind. Despite what they could guess, however, someone would ultimately have to talk with her. The woman statue, possessing a maternal nature, decided to go first. She approached Angelique and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Angel, what's wrong? Do you want to tell old Madame Giry all about it?"

Angelique opened her mouth to speak, but it took a few moments for something to come out. "I . . . I just . . . don't feel like watching the festival, that's all."

Although it was clear that Angelique did not really want to go into an explanation, Madame Giry knew it would be best to get to the heart of the matter. "Well . . . did you ever think about going to it instead?"

This time, Angel let out a short bitter laugh. "Of course. But I'd never fit in out there. I'm not . . . normal. Remember?"

Despite the fact that Madame Giry was made of stone, she could still feel sympathy and sadness for Angelique's state. The poor child had lived with only one human companion all these years. Surely she did not deserve to live in this solitude and isolation for the rest of her life. But how would Angelique see that she deserved more than what she had always known? The older woman could only pat Angel's shoulder again and sigh, "Angel, Angel, Angel . . ."

Another pigeon landed directly on Mme. Giry's forehead.

"Do you _mind_? I would like to have a moment with the girl, if it's all right with you!"

Nadir and Buquet now made their move to come in and give Madame some backup. "Look," said Buquet in a matter-of-fact tone, "quit beating around the bell tower. What do we have to do? Draw you a map?"

He did, however, give a visual demonstration by placing Angelique's mini-self, which had until then resided between the sphinx heads of the cathedral, and placed it in the square among all the other people.

"As your friends and guardians," stated Nadir, "we insist that you attend the festival."

Angelique looked at them in shock. "What? Me?"

"No, the Pope," grinned Buquet. "Of course you!"

Nadir rolled his eyes at Buquet's unnecessary (in his opinion, at least) sarcasm. "It would certainly be a potpourri of educational experiences."

"There'll be wine, men, and song!" exclaimed Buquet, precariously juggling several townspeople at once.

"You could learn to identify various brush techniques of famous paintings."

"Bobbing for snails!" Buquet produced a bucket of water that Angel used to mop the floors of the bell tower.

"Recognize the origins of imported weapons."

"Or play 'Dunk the Hunk'!" cried Buquet, at which point he emphatically poured the bucket of water on Nadir's head.

Amused by their antics but deciding to get to the point, Mme. Giry commanded Angel's attention again. "Angel, let me tell you what it comes down to, and this is coming from an old spectator: life is not a spectator's sport. If watching is all you're ever going to do, then you're going to watch your life go by without you."

"Exactly!" said Buquet, as if that was the point he had been trying to make. "You're human. With the flesh, and the hair, and the _navel lint_ . . . we're just works of art. Right, Nadir?"

"And yet," noted Nadir, who's head was now inside the bucket, "if you chip us, will we not fleck? If you moisten us, do we not grow mold?" Then Nadir returned the favor and, after removing the bucket, firmly placed it on Buquet's head.

"Angel," said Mme. Giry, now feeling a sense of urgency, "just . . . grab a fresh shirt and a clean pair of trousers, de-lint your cape and brush your hat and . . ."

"Thanks for the encouragement," interrupted Angelique, finally able to get a word in edgewise, "but you guys are missing one, _very_ big, important thing."

"_What?_" the statues all said together. (By now Buquet had gotten the bucket off his own head and had tossed it aside.)

Angel turned and picked up a figurine painted with a lavender dress, red hair, and a large plumed hat. "My mistress, Lotte."

The hopes of the statues were quickly deflated. That was one _very_ big obstacle they had neglected to consider. Nadir put his hand to his chin. "Well . . . when she says that you're _forbidden_ from ever leaving the bell tower, does that mean . . . _ever_ ever?"

"_Never_ ever," said Angelique. "And she _hates_ the Feast of Fools. No, she'd be _furious_ if I asked to go."

At that moment, a devilish idea entered Buquet's mind. The same idea entered the other statue's minds a second later, but Buquet was the first to voice it. "Well . . . who says you have to _ask_?"

Angel's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, _no_ . . ."

"How bad can it be? You sneak out . . ."

"It's just one afternoon," Mme. Giry put in.

"But I couldn't—" began Angelique.

" . . . and you sneak back in," finished Buquet.

"She'll never know you were gone," Mme. Giry added.

"What if I got caught?"

"Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission," noted Nadir very coolly.

"But . . . she might see me."

"Then wear a disguise!" said Buquet. "Just this once. What Lotte doesn't know can't hurt you."

Nadir confirmed Buquet's statement with the common euphemism: "Ignorance is bliss," which was reward by a teasing Buquet who muttering, "Look who's talking."

Mme. Giry finally said the statement that hit Angelique closest to home. "No one wants to be cooped up here forever."

Angelique straightened up. Was it not true? Did not Angelique need to be given a little push? If not, however would she manage to test her wings and see if she was strong enough to fly? It was not that she believed herself capable of anything; she would not soar up into the heavens and free herself of the constraints that were, in truth, inescapable. But even if she could not completely go off on her own, it certainly could not be wrong to exercise some degree of freedom. After all, if the bird is kept in a cage for all of its life, it will never know how or even have the courage to fly. And what was the point of that? Just one taste of the outside world - that was all she really wanted. She did not need to leave the safety of her home forever; it was only a short walk outside, beyond the aging walls. What could be so bad about that?

With new resolve in her heart, Angelique stood up. "You're right! I'll go!"

The statues cheered and encouraged her on as she began to lay out her plan. "I'll get cleaned up, I'll walk down those stairs, I'll march through the door and . . ."

She suddenly bumped into something. Or, rather, _someone_.

"Good morning, Angelique."

Angel jumped back. It was Lotte, the Comtesse de Chagny.

The older woman's eyes stared harshly at her ward. Angelique could not fight the shiver than ran down her back when her own eyes met those of the countess; they were so blue, so deep and hard and cold. They were beautiful and frightening at the same time. They nearly robbed the girl of her ability to speak. "G-g- . . . g-g-good m-morning, Mistress."

Even though Angelique had nearly grown to Lotte's height, the latter had the advantage of high-heel boots and a large hat to make her seem taller and more intimidating. Besides, Lotte bore an air of regality that would have startled others even if she were four and a half feet tall.

"My dear girl," she began, her voice strong and chilling, "whomever are you talking to?"

Angelique nervously glanced at the statues who now stood stalk-still. "My . . . my friends."

Lotte looked at what the girl was staring at. "I see," she remarked, and took note to knock on the head of the man in Persian robes. "And what are your 'friends' made of, Angelique?"

Angelique could tell where this was going. They had shared this kind of conversation before, when Angel was much younger. When she had told Lotte of her talking statue friends, her guardian had taken it as a flight of fancy, a whim of the imagination. She never believed that these sculptures actually came to life. And perhaps they didn't, at least to the Countess. Was it only in Angelique's mind that these statues were able to talk and think and converse with the lonesome child? Angelique could not be sure, but she preferred to keep believing that they really could come to life, and that they simply did not come to life for other people. If that was what they wanted, then she preferred to keep it that way.

She let her eyes drop to the floor. "Stone."

Lotte stepped closer and placed her fingers beneath Angelique's chin, barely touching, yet stiff enough to lift the girl's face to hers. "Can stone talk?"

Angelique gave the desired response. "No, it can't."

"That's right. You're a smart girl. Now, lunch."

The Countess promptly sat down at the table with the model of the square and pushed a few of the smaller buildings aside, making room for an area to have their places set. Angelique, of course, was the one who always set the places. Lotte would bring the basket of food and drink for them to have, and she taught Angelique how to put out plates and utensils for these meals. All was simple and made of wood, just like the framework of the bell tower. Angel moved fast, not wanting to test her guardian's patience. As soon as glasses, dishes, and forks were put in their proper places, Lotte took out the bottle of wine and began to pour some into each glass. At the same time, she also withdrew a book that was a common item of use on such occasions. "Shall we review your alphabet today?" she asked after the drinks had been served.

"Yes, mistress," answered Angelique, as always. "I would like that very much."

Her answer was not really ingenuine; the fact of the matter was that the girl had no choice in the matter. Why go through the trouble of upsetting Lotte when there was no chance of winning her way? Still, one would usually be willing to acknowledge that a girl Angel's age would be well associated with the alphabet, considering all the reading she did. Could not Lotte find some other activity to perform during these visits that might be more enjoyable for both of them? But perhaps Lotte still wanted to see Angelique as a young, helpless, and thoroughly naïve child who was constantly dependent on her provider. That was at least what Angelique assumed, and she had not found a reason yet to make her mistress believe otherwise.

The Countess opened the book and began saying a letter for which her "pupil" must recall a word that began with that letter. The reality, however, was that the book gave a specific word that matched with each letter, and any other word mentioned, whether beginning with the correct letter or not, was still considered "incorrect". (Angel had learned that the hard way.) The book had been written by Lotte herself.

"A?"

"Abomination."

"B?"

"Blasphemy?"

"C?"

"Contrition."

Lotte paused to take a sip from her glass. "D?"

"Damnation?"

"E?"

"_Eternal_ damnation."

"Very good." The Countess was about to take another sip. "F?"

At that point, Angelique's mind had begun to wander. How could she help it? The activity was nevertheless tedious, and she could not erase from her mind the thought of finally being able to step outside and participate in the activities that would commence that day. So when her guardian came to the letter "F", she let slip the response that seemed to fit in its own right.

"Festival."

Angelique only caught herself the millisecond after the word escaped her lips. Lotte was also caught off-guard, and in her surprise spat out the wine in her mouth. She quickly used her napkin to wipe her lips. "Excuse me?"

Angel's mind raced furiously. "F-f -. . . _forgiveness_?" Bad response.

Lotte leaned back and snapped the book shut. "You said . . . _festival_."

"No!" the girl cried in panic. Lotte would hear none of it.

"You are thinking about going to the festival." And with that, the Countess stood from her chair. Angelique had the vague fear that her caretaker intended to strike her. She had misjudged, however, for rather than advancing upon her, Lotte took off in another direction, toward the staircase that led down to the next floor and out to the bridge between the sphinx heads. After a moment's consideration, Angel decided she had best follow the noblewoman and perhaps attempt to explain herself. "It's just that . . . you go every year and—"

"_I_ am an esteemed member of society. It is expected of me to attend such things. But I do _not_ enjoy a moment of them. The very notion of these . . . these _commoners_ and _vagabonds_ – the dregs of humankind – all mixed together in a shallow, drunken stupor . . . it sickens me to the bone."

They passed from deepest shadow in the stairwell to bright sunlight in the open air. The view from there would have left the touring visitor breathless, but for Lotte and Angelique, it was a common sight that could not distract them from their severe conversation. Lotte approached the railing and allowed her imperious figure to be silhouetted against the vast blue sky, the wind gently playing with a lose strand of her hair and the feathers of her hat. Angelique, at once feeling shame rush through her heart, let her gaze drop to the ground. "I did not mean to upset you, Mistress."

A secret thrill of pleasure quivered in Lotte's own dark heart at finding her ward still as humble and obedient as ever, despite her troublesome desire to have a first-hand encounter with the outside world. Her only hope of keeping Angelique where she was, however, was reminding her of her monstrosity, and of the rest of humanity's inability to be able to accept her. After a moment's pause she turned to face the deformed girl.

"Angelique, can't you understand? When you're heartless father abandoned you as an infant, anyone else would have drowned you without a second thought. And _this_ is the thanks I am to expect after all I've done to take you in and raise you as my daughter?"

Angel still kept her head down, but she allowed herself to take a few more steps closer to Lotte. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

Lotte sighed and lightly placed her hand on Angelique's shoulder. "Oh, my dear Angelique, you cannot even imagine what it is like out there. You do not know." Her tone now darkened. "But I do. I _do_.

"_The world is cruel. The world is wicked. _

_It's I alone whom you can trust in this whole city. _

_I am your only friend._"

Lotte then turned and looked firmly into Angelique's eyes.

"_I, who keep you, teach you, feed you, dress you . . ._

_I, who look upon you without fear – _

_how can I protect you, girl,_

_unless you always stay in here,_

_away in here?_"

Leading Angelique by the shoulder, Lotte walked the younger girl back up the stairs to the latter's chambers. "You must remember what I have taught you, Angelique."

"_You are deformed . . ._"

Angelique sighed. _"I am deformed . . ._"

"_And you are ugly . . ."_

"_And I am ugly . . ."_

"_And these are crimes for which the world shows little pity._

_You do not comprehend . . ."_

"_You are my one defender . . ._"

The pair walked over to the table with Angelique's models. The masked girl took the liberty of picking up herself from the middle of the square, observing her own singularity and unsightliness in comparison with the other people, ordinary yet beautiful in her eyes.

Lotte continued to spoon-feed poison into her ear.

"_Out there, they will revile you as a monster . . ."_

"_I am a monster . . ."_

"_Out there, they will hate and scorn and jeer . . ."_

"_Only a monster . . ."_

"_Why invite their calumny and consternation? Stay in here!_"

Once more, Lotte displaced more buildings and people, only this time she chose to roughly knock them over rather than place them elsewhere.

"_Be faithful to me . . ."_

"_I'm faithful . . ."_

"_Be grateful to me . . ."_

"_I'm grateful . . ."_

After setting down the basket on the tabletop, she gently removed Angelique's miniature self from the girl's hand and placed her back in the bell tower.

"_Do as I say . . . obey . . . and stay . . . in . . . here._"

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Not as long as the previous one, yes. The chapter lengths will probably vary a little, but not that much. I sometimes like to keep things on the longer side; it means less chapters I'll have to post. :) Well, have a good night or a good morning or whatever time of day you're reading this. See ya!


	4. Chapter 3

Whoa, I actually updated a story I hadn't updated in a while. I won't say it's a first, but it's rather astonishing. Well, here you go. I really do want to finish this, it's just going to take some time, sadly. Be patient. Blame college. Enjoy.

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Angelique gripped the edge of the table, unable to look her mistress in the eye. "You are good to me, madam. I'm . . . I'm sorry."

Lotte could hear the sincerity of her apology. "You are forgiven, my dear. But . . ." she continued as she turned to look at her ward once more, "Remember this, Angelique: _this_ is your sanctuary."

Then she descended the stairs and was gone.

The masked girl sat in the silence of solitude for several moments. The word weighed heavily in her mind, for it meant everything to her, everything she had always known:

"My _sanctuary_."

She tilted her head upward, her eyes passing over the large, wooden beams that crossed over her head. "_Safe behind these windows and these parapets of stone . . ."_

She stood up and walked over to one of the windows, looking out over the square in which the day's festivities would soon commence. _"Gazing at the people down below me . . ._

_All my life I watch them as I hide up here alone,_

_Hungry for the histories they show me."_

She turned away, and noticed one of the figurines that had fallen to the floor in the midst of Lotte's visit. She gingerly picked it up between her fingers, stared at it longingly, then placed it on the table with the rest of the town, where it belonged.

_"All my life, I've memorized their faces,_

_Knowing them as they will never know me._

_All my life, I've wondered how it feels to pass a day . . ."_

Angel reached over and plucked herself from the bridge between the sphinx heads, and carefully, almost hesitantly, placed herself in the square with the other citizens.

_"Not above them . . ."_

Oh, how wonderful that would be!

_"But a part of them . . ."_

It was becoming unbearable. For all these years, she had been forced to be satisfied with being locked up in this place. In childhood, she had remained innocence and ignorant of what the world outside could offer. But now, after reading all those books, and seeing all she could possibly see from her perch, it wasn't enough anymore. She needed to get out. She needed a day's worth of true liberty. Just to experience the real thing, to be in the real world for one day.

The desire for fresh air rushed over her, and she ran to the window once more, not wanting to hide any longer.

_"And out there, living in the sun . . ._

_Give me one day out there – all I ask is one . . ._

_To hold forever._

_Out there, where they all live unaware_

_Of what I'd give . . ._

_What I'd dare . . ._

_Just to live one day out there!"_

She began to climb around the cathedrals walls, roofs, and balconies, eagerly observing the simple people that she longed to speak to, people she felt she had known all her life, with whom she had never exchanged a word.

_"Out there, among the millers and the weavers and their wives,_

_Through the roofs and gables I can see them._

_Every day__, they shout and scold and go about their lives,_

_Heedless of the gift it is to be them!_

_If I was in their skin,_

_I'd treasure every instant!"_

The girl climbed higher and higher, taking in more of the view below, her heart pounding with desire and longing. Just to be down there, to be one of them for once. Just to have one chance at that . . . how could that be wrong?

_"Out there, strolling by the Seine . . ._

_Taste the morning!_

_Out there, like ordinary men . . ._

_Who freely walk about there,_

_Just one day, and then . . . I swear I'll be content_

_With my share."_

Damn the consequences! Damn every warning she's ever received! How could Lotte be so certain that those things would happen to her? She would keep out of trouble. Besides, the price she would pay for leaving the safety of her domain was nothing to the price of keeping herself locked away and going mad with the thought of having never taken a chance, never having once dared to breathe freedom and be among the rest of the human race. She would do it, come what may.

_"Won't resent! Won't despair!_

_Old and bent, I won't care!_

_I'll have spent . . . one . . . day . . . out . . . there!"_

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A young woman in a trench coat looked intently at the map in her hands, occasionally examining it at different angles, as if hoping it would help her decipher the incomprehensible images before her eyes. "I must be in the wrong Paris," she muttered at one point which the undertone of a small, sarcastic laugh.

"Let me take a look," offered the anthropomorphic cyborg who accompanied her, extending a large hand to receive the paper.

"Even your advanced software couldn't comprehend this mess, Watson," the woman grumbled. "The bloody thing must be outdated." Frustrated beyond belief, she finally gave up, crumbled up the map, and tossed it into the road to be claimed by a robotic street cleaner. "Zed! You leave town for a decade, and they change everything!"

Although American by birth, Beth Lestrade had been sent to live with her aunt and uncle in France after her parents unexpectedly passed away. Her mother's sister was as American as she was, but had moved to France and ended up marrying a French officer of the municipal guard. From age nine to fifteen, young Beth had become immersed into the culture and had developed a strong love for it, although she still claimed to be more American than French. When national and political problems reached a new height in the midst of Beth's adolescence, her aunt and uncle believed it best that the young girl be placed out of harm's way until the crisis had been quelled a bit. Her aunt had managed to make contact with a cousin of her father's in England, where political strife had long settled down and proved to be a safer environment for the young teenager.

Beth Lestrade knew from an early age that she wanted to go into active law enforcement, due to both her family history (tracing back to the well-renowned Inspector Lestrade) and her personal convictions to reestablish justice in a world that was so overrun by chaos and fear. This was encouraged by her father's cousin (who was a policeman himself), and she shortly began her training after her move to England.

Now, after all these years of becoming acquainted with British society, Beth felt an itch to revisit her previous home and see what good she could do for it. After all, it was the very place that needed the law's guiding hand the most. Corruption of an elusive kind had been seeping into the federal infrastructure, and daily life was uncertain and occasionally perilous.

It only took a month to receive a positive reply for her application for a new policial position in Paris. She was offered the rank of inspector, which she wanted to bear with honor and dignity. Her return to the city, however, proved to be a less easy adjustment than she initially thought, for no sooner had she entered that magnificent metropolis that she found herself completely and utterly lost. Her robotic companion, Watson, had not been of much help to her, despite his good intentions. Seeing that maps and cyborgs were not going to get her back on track, Inspector Lestrade began asking passer-bys if any of them knew how to find the Palace of Justice. Unfortunately, hardly anyone gave her the slightest look or paid any notice.

Sighing with vexation at the lack of progress, Lestrade began to simply wander down the street, hoping that some miracle would happen that would allow her to report to the Palace. Watson, seeing that further inquiries would be fruitless and he was as incapable of finding the desired destination without aid as his friend, he followed her without saying a word.

Lestrade's spirits were lifted a bit, however, when she detected the sound of music playing around the corner of the next block. She quickened her pace just a bit as she walked toward the source. She noticed a mother and daughter pass by the place from which the music was coming, and though the girl tried to stop and listen to the enchanting tune, her mother yanked her hand a bit harshly and snapped, "Stay away from them! They're Bohemians! They'll steal us blind!"

The young police officer slowed her steps until she came to a full halt, then almost cautiously poked her head around the corner. The first thing that met her eye was a lively brown-and-white spaniel that seemed to be hopping, skipping, and jumping to the tune that danced in her ears. Her eyes drifted up momentarily to see a few young men who were plucking at, banging on, or blowing into their designated instruments. She could not resist looking at the dog again, amused by its antics and feeling like a child again. She could recall the sideshows and circuses that her loving aunt took her to see, and remembered with special pleasure the humorous acts of the animals. This mild wave of nostalgia convinced her to pull out a few sous and drop them into an old, decrepit hat that lay nearby. Her thoughts of dancing dogs and the like were quickly abolished, however, when she looked up again and saw another human member of the group that she had not noticed before.

His long, thin figure was dressed in brown trousers, a wine-colored vest, blue necktie and shirtsleeves, his jacket and deerstalker hat resting on a bench behind him. In his right hand he held a bow; in his left hand and tucked under his strong chin was a violin, its red tinted surface glistening in the midday sun. The bow which his dominant hand conducted flowed and danced gracefully across the instrument's strings, making a sound that was sweet and sharp and the same time. In his face, beneath the mat of sandy hair, was a pair of piercing blue eyes and an intelligent, hawk-like nose. The thin yet gentle mouth turned up into a smile when the eyes caught sight of the girl who had observed them. She couldn't help but give a half-shy, half-coy smile back.

This exchange was cut off when one of the violinist's companions, who had been plucking away at his acoustic guitar, suddenly stopped his playing and gave a sharp whistle between thumb and index finger. The rest of the group understood this signal, and immediately packed up their instruments and fled in different directions. The violinist nearly finished putting his own instrument away, and the dog had rushed over to grab the hat filled with coins. Unfortunately, as the dog began to take off, several of the coins spilled out into the road. Lestrade thought that the dog would take no notice of this and continue on its way. It had noticed, however, and with a bark of what appeared to be distressed, brought this problem to the attention of the violinist, who by now had donned his coat and cap. Violin case under his left arm, he quickly rushed over and began to gather the money back into the old hat. By then, however, it was too late.

A pair of shadows landed on the lone Bohemian, and he looked up with a scowl at the two officers standing before him, one tall and lanky, and the other stout and plump.

"All right, Bohemian," growled the tall one, "where did you get the money?"

The young man continued scooping up the money, and as soon as he finished doing so he rose to his feet. He was not without some unneeded help from the lawmen who were interrogating him. "For your information, gentlemen," he replied acerbically, "I _earned_ it."

The officer who had spoken before answered with a snort. "Please. Bohemians don't earn money."

"That's right," put in the other officer, making an attempt to swipe the hat from the violinist's hands. "They _steal_ it."

The musician held fast to his earnings. "Oh, I'm sure you gentlemen know a great deal about stealing."

"Troublemaker, eh?" snarled the first guard, also reaching in and trying to grab the money. The young man gave him a hard shove.

"Well," piped up the shorter, tubbier officer, "maybe a day in the clink will cool you down. How about that?"

Suddenly, the brown-and-white spaniel jumped up from behind the chubby officer and sank its teeth into the folds of fabric and flesh that was the lawman's rear. The bitten officer cried out in surprise and pain, causing him to release the coin-filled hat. Before the taller man could make a move, the dog leapt toward him and knocked him off his feet.

Now freed from their hold, the violinist made a mad dash down the street and ducked into a small alley. His faithful friend followed in kind.

Lestrade witnessed the event without gaining anyone's notice. She could see now that even though the musician and his pet had gained a head start, the officers could still try to track them down if they immediately pursued them. As it was, both policemen were on their feet again and began to chase after the Bohemian. Just before they managed to pass her, she stepped across their path, then grabbed Watson's wrist and pulled him toward her. Her timing was perfect, and the taller lawman ran smack into the cyborg, causing him to fall back and to knock into his partner. While the second officer tumbled backward, the first one was knocked forward again and fell down behind Watson's heels.

"Watson," ordered Lestrade, "please take a seat."

The robot had already ascertained an idea of what was happening, and quickly comprehending his friend's intention, he obeyed her request. His considerable bulk, covered by a large black overcoat, was soon resting on top of the skinny officer, making him cry out in anguish. This action earned the laughter of several citizens who had become spectators to the fiasco.

"Oh!" cried Lestrade in mock mortification. "Dear me, I am _so_ sorry, monsieur! Bad, robot! Bad! He's just impossible, really. I can't take him anywhere."

The musician had allowed himself to stop for a moment, seeing as how his pursuers had been detained, and smiled at the young woman who had been responsible for saving his hide. He knew, however, that it was too risky to remain much longer. As soon as the girl had delivered her "apologetic" speech, he fled down the alley with his four-legged companion, the courageous woman's face still in his mind.

"Get this thing off me!" The thinner man had tried to make this cry sound like an order, but it came out as a desperate plea. The fatter lawman decided to take the aggressive route. He whipped out his electrical nightstick and brandished it in the woman's face. "I'll teach you a lesson, punk!"

With nearly light speed movement, Lestrade opened her trench coat and unsheathed her ionizer cannon, while simultaneously revealing the police uniform and inspector's badge that had been previously concealed by the coat. She pointed her weapon at the officer. "You were saying, sergeant?"

The stout man stuttered in shock. "Oh! I-I-I-I-Inspector!" He attempted to salute her, but accidently wacked himself in the head with his own nightstick. After dropping his weapon and emitting a short cry of pain, he attempted to salute her again. "At your service, mademoiselle!"

Inspector Lestrade knelt down beside the taller guard, permitting him a good look at her ionizer. "Now, I know that you have a lot on your mind at the moment, but I would _really_ appreciate it if you could escort my companion and me to the Palace of Justice."

The two officers quickly acquiesced, and Lestrade was glad to find herself finally on her way to her destination. She was both eager to officially engage in her law enforcement duties, and anxious to meet her employer and see if this delay had caused any misgivings. She had found it somewhat odd that the person who had replied to her application was not, in fact, the prefect of Paris, but a woman bearing a title of aristocracy. Lestrade could not begin to imagine what roles this countess had in mind for her, and she decided that it was better not to try and predict her new employer's expectations.

Despite how much she wanted to reach the Palace of Justice, Lestrade was not so absorbed in her thoughts regarding the place as to not notice the two coins that lay abandoned in the street. As soon as she picked them up, she also noticed what appeared to be an old man dressed in shabby clothes. She noted, too, that he had an old, worn-out hat lying next to him. A suspicion flashed across her mind that made her smile. It did not matter either way, though, and without a moment's hesitation she dropped the two coins into the hat of the beggar. She did not wish to pause and discover his true identity, but instead hurried her pace to catch up with the rest of her entourage. It was only when she was a good ways off that the beggar dared to remove his hat and false beard, unveiling the face of the handsome musician, eyes staring in puzzlement and wonder. The bundle beside him that may have been mistaken as a sleeping homeless person squirmed to free itself from the coat it was wrapped in, and the spaniel poked its head out to give its owner an inquisitive look.

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The ugly crack of a whip made goose bumps pop up along Lestrade's arms and caused a slight shiver to run down her back. It reminded her of when she visited a prison with her class from the Academy, and the prison guards were monitoring a group of convicts who were crushing rocks in the stock yard. Whips were used on prisoners who began to slack off or not pay attention to the task at hand. Her skin had crawled at the sound of leather against flesh, and to that day she could never reconcile herself to the sound. It seemed so primeval and savage.

The corridor of the lower chambers was narrow and dark, which only helped to make the atmosphere more unpleasant. What a surprise it was to the young inspector to see a beautiful, middle-aged woman wearing elegant attire in such a deathly, morbid setting. Intuition very quickly informed her that the richly dressed woman was the countess who had hired her.

The woman in question was looking into one of the chambers, and right after the sound of the whip resonated through the passage, her voice followed with, "Stop!"

Lestrade felt a momentary relief at this remark, and she watched to see what would follow when the man employing the whip spoke with her.

"Yes, Mlle. la Comtesse?"

"He's out. You have to _wait_ between lashes. Otherwise, the old sting will guard him against the new."

A sinister smiled crossed the whip-wielder's face. "Of course, madam." Then he vanished into the room again.

This conversation made every high hope of Lestrade's sink to the ground. _Oh, great. She's a countess _and_ a sadist. Just my luck._

As soon as her conversation with the whip master ended, Lestrade's presence caught the attention of the Countess de Chagny. "Ah! You must be Inspector Lestrade. What a pleasure to have you here!"

"I am reporting for duty, madam," Lestrade replied stiffly, "as you ordered."

"Yes, you were the officer who sent her application all the way from England. You must understand, Lestrade, that your service record precedes you. I have heard a great many things about you, all of which promising, and I expect nothing but the best from a law enforcer of your esteem."

At least the woman liked to get down to business. Lestrade preferred employers who did not try to get too friendly with their subordinates and circumvent matters of business. "And you shall have it, madam. I guarantee it."

"Yes, that is what they all say," replied the Countess, sounding not wholly convinced. "And I think you should know that for all his promise, my last chief inspector was . . . well, a bit of a disappointment."

Another vicious crack of the whip, louder than ever. Lestrade nearly jumped. The Countess de Chagny merely smiled. "Well, I'm sure you'll be able to . . . _whip_ my men into shape."

Lestrade tried her hardest not to seem rattled, but she found herself inadvertently stumbling over her words. "Well-uh . . . it's a gr-trem . . . tremendous honor, madam."

As the Countess led Lestrade through the rest of the building, working their way up from the lower levels to the floors with open walkways that permitted splendid views of the city, she inquired about the specifics of the young woman's history and experience, although it seemed that she knew a great deal already. As they came out to one of the open-aired walkways, the Countess altered the conversation to the question of Lestrade's specific duties as Chief Inspector of Police.

"You have come at our darkest hour, Inspector," she explained. "It will take a firm hand to save the weak minded from being so easily misled."

Lestrade started at this statement. "_Misled_, madam?"

The Countess stopped walking and turned toward the view before them. It was not difficult to see the activities that took place in the city streets, and soon her eyes fell upon a particular sight that made her stomach turn: a group of musicians, very much like the one which Lestrade had encountered earlier that day, was playing a large range of ditties and tunes that drew the attention of the city's denizens. "Look at them, Inspector," she hissed, motioning her hand toward the scene. The next word she nearly spat out in disgust. "_Bohemians_."

Lestrade took note of what the Countess showed her, but did not say anything. This was what the Countess had wanted to speak to her about since the moment they met.

"The Bohemians live outside the normal order, as is their form of rebellion against our society and government. Their radical lifestyles and beliefs have a way of . . . _enflaming_ the people's lowest instincts." She turned to the Inspector with a pair of hard, rage-filled eyes. "And they _must be stopped_."

Lestrade could hardly believe what she was being told. "Are you saying that I came all the way from England to capture artists, actors, and musicians?"

"You have been called, Inspector, to fight in a war. You see, for the last twenty years, I have been . . . taking care of the Bohemians." The Countess suddenly noticed a few ants that were crawling across the stone railing. As she continued to speak, she slowly and purposefully eliminated each and every insect. "One . . . by . . . one. And yet, for all my success . . ." She then tucked her fingers into the edges of the square of stone that the ants had been crushed against, and yanked it free. The two women discovered a large swarm of ants.

" . . . they have thrived. It is my belief that they have a haven within the walls of this very city. A _nest_, if you will. They call it the . . . Court of Miracles." She chuckled lightly at this last bit, as if the name were the invention of a child's imagination.

"So . . ." said Lestrade, trying not to stare at the ant nest, "what are _we_ going to do about it?"

The Countess seemed quite glad that she asked, for after allowing another cruel smile to cross her face, she tightly gripped the stone block and crushed the swarm with incredible force.

Inspector Lestrade quietly gulped, then said in as even a tone as possible, "You make your point quite vividly, madam."

The Countess de Chagny extended a hand and congenially placed it on Lestrade's shoulder. The younger woman tried not to flinch. "You know, I think I'm really going to like you, Inspector. Shall we continue?"

But before the women could proceed with their walk, a loud cheer erupted from the streets of the city. The Countess sighed grumpily. "Duty calls. Inspector, have you ever attended a commoners' festival?"

"Not recently, madam."

"Then this should be quite the educational experience for you. Come along now."

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Yay, there you go. Review and let me know how the song thing is. I would REALLY like some feedback on that point.


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